


The Care and Feeding of Washingtons

by BoxOnTheNile



Series: To the Names of Our Wounds [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxOnTheNile/pseuds/BoxOnTheNile
Summary: Tucker is now responsible for a walking ball of anger and paranoia, also called Agent Washington. He didn't want this. He has to deal with it anyway.He starts a set of rules.The Care and Feeding of Washingtons.(A series of drabbles on the fifteen rules, and the development of Wash and Tucker's relationship, from almost-enemies to something more.)





	1. Rule One

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned the Rules in Long Way Back to the Light and had.... so many people ask about them. So I wrote them up. And then I kinda wrote a drabble on the first one. And the second one. And the third one. So now I'm just doing all of them I guess.
> 
> Trans Tucker, as is my usual, but I'm afraid of flooding the tag when it's not super relevant? Meh.

**Rule One: When Wash has a nightmare, DON’T wake him up. (Edit: Wake him, but stay out of reach. He fucking _materializes_ knives.)**

Tucker knows Washington doesn’t sleep the whole trip back to Valhalla. He knows because he doesn't really sleep, either. This dude just tried to kill all of them, and even if he changed his mind or whatever, Tucker isn't a hundred percent certain he won't try again. 

They get back to Valhalla late(early?), but Tucker still loops the base to locate all the hidey-holes Caboose might use later. The whole place is a fucking disaster. It looks like a bomb went off. It looks like Caboose was unsupervised.

Tucker resigns himself to spending the next few hours until dawn making the kitchen functional and sends Caboose to bed. The fact he doesn't argue is telling on how tired other man is.

Washington fucking vanishes the second they arrive, so Tucker nearly crawls out of his skin two hours later when he steps into the rec room and finds a bottle-blond passed out on the singed, stained couch. 

He's adorable, Tucker thinks wildly, then viciously crushes the thought. 

He's actually dreaming, probably, because his face is scrunched up and his breathing is ragged. Church( ~~Alpha~~ ) used to get like that, flailing awake at all hours of the night with no memory of the nightmare.

It's almost second nature to grab Washington’s shoulder and nudge him awake.

And suddenly he's on his back, a heavy weight on his chest and a knife pressed to his throat and Washington's face is very close to his.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Tucker wheezes, and familiarity flickers in slate grey eyes.

“Private Tucker?” Washington scrambles back, knife clattering to the ground.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” Tucker says again. “Jesus titfucking Christ, man.”

“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” Washington is getting screechy and panicked. He reaches out, and Tucker can't stop himself from flinching. Washington immediately flattens himself against the couch, keeping as much room between them as possible. 

Tucker gingerly probes at his throat. It's not bleeding. His ribs ache, but he had worse back when he had to bind. A few deep breaths verify that they're not cracked. 

“I'm good. Won't be doing that again. What the fuck.”

“You probably shouldn't wake me up,” Washington says softly.

Tucker wonders what he just got himself into.


	2. Rule Two

**Rule Two: Make sure Wash eats. He would survive off coffee and spite if you'd let him. Don't let him.**

They hardly see Washington those first few days. He ducks into the kitchen long enough to grab coffee and one of the military’s bullshit ration bars and disappears for hours on end.

Grif strolls right into their base on the fifth morning and Tucker doesn't question it, just steps back and watches as Grif ties the Blue flag around his neck like a cape and orders Caboose into the bathroom to shower.

“It's that fucking easy?” he complains, sliding a bowl of oatmeal into Grif's reach. (He doesn't want to cook all the time, sue him.)

“Might not work for you,” Grif says, mouth already full. “I'm used to defiant children.”

Tucker shoots him a glare. “Caboose isn't a child.” Grif holds up his hands in a peacemaking gesture, so Tucker lets it slide this once. He pours a cup of coffee and makes up another bowl, then sets both on the counter as close to the door as he can. Grif makes a questioning noise, so he explains. “Washington won't fucking eat, so I'm trying the feral cat method.”

“The fucking what?”

“With feral cats, you put food down where you know they frequent and you leave it the fuck alone,” Tucker says. He falls quiet and listens, hears near silent footsteps. He waves a warning to Grif half a second before Washington steps hesitantly into the kitchen. His eyes move quickly from Tucker to Grif to the food and back to Tucker.

“Why?” Washington asks. He sounds awful.

“Making Caboose do shit,” Grif says. “Did you know you're a feral cat now?”

“Grif!”


	3. Rule Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple minor headcanons in this one:  
> \- Donut was stationed at Sandtrap with Tucker  
> -CT(not Connie, the guy Epsilon laserfaced) was Not Good. It doesn't go into detail here but anyone who's read Razor Sharp knows what I'm talking about.

**Rule Three: Make sure you touch him. Skin hunger is real and shitty.**

Washington gets sick. Honestly, Tucker isn’t all that surprised? The stupid freelancer nearly bled out in the snow, won’t sleep, barely eats, and Tucker isn’t a hundred percent certain he’s drunk anything but coffee since they got to Valhalla. Tucker wouldn’t even be sure he’d changed his bandages if he hadn’t walked in on Washington redressing his wounds in the bathroom at two a.m. when coming to take a piss.

There’d been an exhausted, half panicked look in the freelancer’s eyes, so Tucker had backed out slowly and crossed the fucking valley to pee at Red Base.

Simmons had tried to ask what he was doing, but Tucker just snapped, “Shut up and don’t ask.”

So when he finds Washington pale and shivering in a fucking supply closet, fever flushed, he sighs and says, “C’mon, dumbass, let’s get you into bed.” He takes Washington’s arm to drape it over his shoulder and Washington _whimpers_. It’s scared and broken and Tucker is suddenly, instantly furious at whoever made Washington make a sound like that. 

Tucker knows why he’s made noises that frightened before, but there’s no time to dwell on that. Washington is sick and scared and Tucker doesn’t really _like_ the guy yet, is actually trying so hard not to hate him outright, but he doesn’t ever want anyone to be that afraid. 

“No,” Washington mumbles, delirious, trying to push Tucker’s hands away. “Don’t touch me, hurts.”

“Fuck,” Tucker hisses, outraged, but Washington is burning up. He’s gotta get him cooled off quick. “It’s Tucker, c’mon.” Washington is still trying to fend him off. “I know, it hurts, but you can’t stay here.” Tucker turns to yell for Caboose, but Caboose is outside trying to fish in the stream and Tucker doesn’t want to leave Washington alone, so he grits his teeth, wraps one arm around Washington’s waist, and drags him to his feet. 

Washington gasps and whines, but his eyes focus for a second. “T- Tuck- ker? What?”

“You’re too hot,” Tucker says. It’s the perfect opening for his catchphrase, but Washington is putting off more heat than some _fires_ Tucker has been around. This is gonna suck and it’s gonna be embarrassing, but Tucker guides Washington down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Where ‘re you…” Washington leans on him heavily, panting.

“Please don’t puke,” Tucker says quickly. “Bathroom. Have to bring that fever down.” And he hauls Washington into the shower stall and turns the cold water on full blast.

Washington near sobs, instinctively trying to get away, but Tucker holds him in as the water soaks them both to the bone. Tucker fiddles with the faucet one handed until it’s lukewarm rather than icy. Washington is still shivering, but being next to him is no longer like standing near a bonfire, so Tucker guides him to sit on the floor of the shower stall and scrambles for a towel, which has him darting down the hall again to the same goddamn closet and leaving a trail of water. 

Washington shakes as Tucker dries them both off best he can with their clothes still wet, and Tucker realizes he has no idea where the paranoid motherfucker has been sleeping. 

Tucker’s room it is.

He sits Washington on his bed and digs out a pair of sweatpants. “Here. They’ll be too short but they should fit. I’m gonna go snag a shirt from Caboose.” He wishes he had that soft, heavy blanket of Donut’s, but then he remembers Donut is gone and almost staggers under the weight of grief. There’s no time for it, though, hasn’t been time since this whole fucking mess started.

He steals a shirt from Caboose’s room and scurries back. Washington has wrangled his way into the sweatpants, but he's sitting on the floor now, face pressed to the cool metal of the bed frame. “Why're you helping me?” he asks.

“Because you're a fucking disaster that got himself sick,” Tucker says. He kneels so he can peel Washington out of his shirt and help get the new one on him. “C'mon, in the bed. Bow chicka bow wow.” He winces at the reflexive catchphrase. 

Washington, however, just sort of huffs softly, like he's trying laugh. “You don't have to. You don't like me.”

“Not really, no,” Tucker tells him. “But I'm not a dick. An asshole, sure, but I'm not gonna let you burn up and fucking die because you're an idiot. In the bed.”

He gets Washington in the bed and under his blankets. He presses a hand to his cheek to check the fever- already starting to climb again, he needs some ice and ibuprofen in him fast- and Washington… Washington sorta leans his face into Tucker's hand, eyes falling shut as he pants.

Fuck him running, when was the last time someone touched Washington without the intent to hurt him? Tucker knows what skin hunger looks like, he _absolutely_ spent that first night reunited with Caboose wrapped up in the tightest hug the other Blue would give him. So he lets Wash press his cheek into his hand and tries not to shake from rage and this strange, fierce protectiveness. He doesn't even know who he's angry at anymore. 

It’s not a good feeling.


	4. Rule Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting on my lunch break again, let me know if there's and typos or formatting issues, please! I love all of you!

**Rule Four: Ask before you touch.**

 

Washington shuffles out into the kitchen three days later, shitty military blanket over his shoulders like a cape, and stops. Caboose waves at him, which gives Tucker the opening he needed to yank the spatula out of his hands.

“I know how to make fucking grilled cheese, Caboose, go sit down,” he snaps. “You, too, Washington, if you're up to it. Actually, come here.”

Washington hesitates, but shuffles to his side. Tucker is careful to telegraph his movements as he presses the back of his fingers to Washington's cheek. “Still warm, but I think we're in the clear. I argued some tea from the Reds last night, with like, lemon and mint and shit, and there’s honey in the cabinet for some reason.”

“Sandwiches,” Caboose says. 

Tucker leans to peer around Washington and fix Caboose with a hard stare. “Did you eat nothing but peanut butter and honey sandwiches the whole time I was gone?”

“No,” Caboose says. “I also ate what Grif brought over.”

“Note to self: make cookies for Grif.” Tucker remembers the ‘Defiant Child’ comment from the week before as he pulls bread from the cabinets. “Addendum: oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Simmons likes oatmeal raisin,” Caboose says.

“Yeah, so does-” Tucker stops, carefully sets the bread on the counter. He shakes his head and yanks open the fridge with more force than necessary.

“So does?” Washington croaks. 

Tucker doesn’t answer, just points at the table. “Go sit down. I’ll get you some water or something. Tea.”

They don’t have a kettle and Tucker doesn’t care enough to boil water on the stove, so he shoves a mug with cold water and a teabag in the microwave for a minute and a half. Ten minutes later, he sets toast in front of Washington and grilled cheese in front of Caboose. The mug gets pulled from the microwave, almost dropped, and Tucker dumps a liberal amount of honey into it before handing it over. “It’s hot as dicks,” he warns.

It’s almost domestic, Tucker thinks, flipping another sandwich in the pan. Washington is nibbling at his toast, obviously spacing out while Caboose tells some story or another with character voices and wild gestures. The Freelancer nods absently as he picks up the mug, staring suspiciously as its contents.

Tucker is about to tell him it doesn’t bite when Caboose drops a hand onto Washington’s shoulder and he jolts, immediately reaching for the small of his back and the knives that aren’t there. The mug shatters on the laminate flooring. Caboose rips his hand away, and Washington scrambles away, feet tangling in his blanket and tripping him. Tucker had started moving as soon as Washington flinched and is close enough to catch him before he hits the ground and impales himself on the broken mug.

The tradeoff is that a jagged piece of ceramic slices open Tucker's foot. The coppery smell of blood is jarring, but Tucker grits his teeth and pulls Washington to his feet. 

“I’m touching you,” Caboose says quickly, then wraps his arms around both of them and picks them up, carrying them to the rec room. Tucker is squashed up against Washington for several seconds until Caboose drops them on the couch. “Bandaids,” Caboose says, and bolts down the hall.

Tucker pulls his foot up to rest it on the opposite thigh, hissing. It doesn’t look great, and there’s still a shard of ceramic in the wound. That’s gonna suck. 

“You should've let me fall,” Washington says, and there's a panicked edge to his voice. “Then you wouldn't-”

“Please shut the fuck up, Wash,” Tucker snaps.

He shuts up, surprisingly. Tucker glances over; Wash is staring openly. “What?” Tucker asks.

Caboose bursts back into the room before he can answer, and Tucker forgets about that cautious, hopeful expression.


End file.
